Hooligans
by fynnorian
Summary: It is the 2010 World Cup, and Germany is up against Ghana. And he will win this game, so help him, if Veneziano and Prussia's antics don't kill him first. Germany/Italy


**Hooligans**

The flags are brought out onto the field. Germany is already on the field, in his best suit, waiting for his players to walk out under the bright lights of the stadium against the black of the night sky. When they finally do emerge, they hold the hands of young children in football kits. They line up in front of each of the players as per normal, smiling nervously as Ghana's national anthem plays. Germany hears some wheezing and turns to see Prussia jogging up.

"Sorry I'm late. They haven't sung it yet, right?"

"_Nein_, but punctuality should be a higher comittment from you in such a prestigious international setting -"

"_Ja_,_ ja_, whatever," he sings to the tune of Germany's anthem, hand forming a half-salute at his forehead, his grin wicked and eager.

As the roar of the footballers die down, the vuvuzelas rev up. Germany is reminded of wasps every time he hears them: he has requested more than once they be banned, out of concern for the players's ability to concentrate as the stadium amplifies the sound beyond what Germany can tolerate.

"Fuck, I wish we were like Argentina, eh, West?" Prussia comments snidely as the first offside flag goes up.

Germany sighs: "That is not the European style, _brüder_."

"Well I think we should dump that shit and do it Argentina's way," Prussia replies, face sour, "Maybe then we wouldn't need a million points to move onto the next round."

"We don't need that many -"

"We need a _win_, West, Ghana can afford to tie. It's like a battle strategy, we're still doing that stupid lining up and firing dig from the 18th century - hey, are we going to score?"

Alas, the keeper catches the ball.

"Hey, they knocked Kießling down!" Prussia yells, and then stands up and cups his hands around his mouth, "Yellow card, yellow card!"

"They can't hear you, _brüder_," Germany sighs, checking his watch for the time. He does not mention how Kießling was not exactly "knocked down", though.

In the next few minutes, they are nearly shot on twice, which is apparently two times too many for Prussia, who begins pacing after the defense has to slide in to block a cross.

Germany signals to an aid after another shot of his is blocked and asks what the score is between Australia and Serbia.

"Nil-nil, sir," the aid murmurs back, bobbing his head. Germany shoos him off with a wave of his hand and palms his face, pressing his temples for some relief. He wishes he'd brought some of his prescription headache pills along with him.

He turns to where Prussia is steadily wearing a line into the grass: "_Brüder_. Could you get me some water?"

Prussia starts: "Huh? Ha, you're joking, West! I'll get us some beer - fucking shoddy beer, but beer all the -"

"No, _brüder_. Water," Germany replies in a steely voice. Prussia blinks and shrugs.

"Whatever, _Deustchland_, if you want to miss out on all the fun." He cricks his neck: "I'll be getting some awesome beer for my awesome self. See -"

"_Preußen_, just go."

Prussia scampers off, accosting World Cup staff by the sounds of the screams in that direction. It does nothing for Germany's headache.

He hears the shrill scream of the whistle to discover Ayew for Ghana has just been given a yellow card and that a free kick is in order. He stands in the yellow glow of the lights and looks to the jumbotron. The whistle sounds two more times, and - it's deflected. Germany groans and sits back down, rubbing his head.

Five minutes later, it's Mueller who gets a yellow card, and Germany is annoyed to realize that he is indeed hoping Prussia will hurry back soon with that water.

He does return, at halftime.

Germany stares at his glass: "You got me beer, _Preußen_."

Prussia is busy gulping down his own drink, and it is not his first of the match from what Germany can tell. He finally sighs contentedly and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand: "Yes, I did."

Germany waits for around half a minute before having to ask why.

"Because," Prussia rolls his eyes, "Beer is for champions. And we are champions. It's simple."

Germany shakes his head and takes a couple of asprin before gulping down the mediocre beer: "Didn't they have Heinekens, _brüder_?"

Prussia shrugs: "Dunno. I went to the stand with the hottest chick, man."

Ghana's fans suddenly scream in indignation at a brilliant save by Neuer, and Prussia promptly blanches.

"Tell me we're either winning or -"

"Still tied nil-nil," Germany talks over him, placing his face in his hands for the nth time that day. Neuer saves the ball again, judging by the roar and sudden chill of screams. The light behind his eyelids grows dark as a shadow hovers over him.

"This is an intense match!"

"Please tell me something I don't know, _Pre_-"

- that is not Prussia.

Veneziano has craned his neck before the glare of stadium lights, grinning eagerly, bare hands pressed against his thighs.

"_Italien_! What are you doing here!" Germany yells. Veneziano's grin broadens, oddly, and he plops himself down beside Germany.

"Cheering you on," he replies: "I know we've been having a bad go here, but if we support each other, we can do anything!" Veneziano cheers whichever defender has just blocked a shot by one of Ghana's strikers.

Germany clears his throat, begins to worry if his face is at all red. "Shouldn't you be training with your team?" he asks: "Practice is just as important as support, you know."

"Nah, _fratello_'s taking care of that," he says breezily, "He told me to occupy myself."

Germany pauses to blink and then decides not to ask.

"Wait," Veneziano says, standing up, "Wait, is that -?"

The German fans scream as the ball curls triumphantly into Ghana's net.

Germany jumps off the bench and yells, pumps his fist. He can hear Prussia tackling staff to his right. On his left, Veneziano is doing some sort of strange victory dance and cheering loudly.

He winks at Germany: "It's a tarantella!"

"_Italien_!" Prussia yells before running up and hooking his elbow around Veneziano's shoulder: "Since when did you get here?"

"Ahh, _ciao_!" Veneziano grins as his track suit becomes wrinkled in Prussia's grasp, "I came to see the hooliganism!"

Germany frowns: "_Italien_, there hasn't been any hooliganism at this game."

"Oh," Veneziano replies thoughtfully," I heard England say there would be."

"Talk about a saving grace!" Prussia cuts in, "You're a luck magnet in football, _Italien_! Ghana's flopped!"

Indeed, Ghana's team seems to have lost all drive it once carried. Now the players pass the ball listlessly around Germany's players, with no apparent strategy in place, like lost ants on the jumbotron. Germany briefly contemplates the statistical possibility that Veneziano is in fact a good luck charm, and decides it requires further thought.

Not another point is scored in the second half, which is enough for an elated Prussia, who by the time the whistle has blown for the end of the game, has kissed at least half the German sports staff, and two of the reporters.

"You could've gotten more goals," Veneziano comments afterward, "Romano would be so angry right now!"

"I was looking for an efficient end to the match," Germany states, "and I got one. It suffices."

"Oh! Well, now you'll be up against England, right?" Veneziano asks, clinging to Germany's arm, "If only this was a cooking contest, you'd win for sure!"

Germany's jaw twitches. "_Italien_, anyone would win against England, should that be the case."

Veneziano laughs, and Germany blushes.

As they exit the stadium to a swarm of reporters and cameras, Veneziano and Germany lead an inebriated and ecstatic Prussia, who trips over himself every three steps to Germany's calculation. Veneziano makes a small noise as the German team files onto their coach bus.

"What is it, Italien?" Germany asks.

Veneziano shrugs: "Just wondering why England said there'd be hooliganism - it's a very funny word, I like it."

Germany glances from Prussia, to the press, and to the elated team cheering from the bus.

"I could probably guess," he replies.


End file.
